Discoveries of a Traitor
by VintagePuppet
Summary: COMPLETED. Warning! Slight HBP spoilers! Do not read if you have not finished the book! A oneshot of Snape musings as he is brutally tortured by the Death Eaters. Major Snape Angst!


**Title:** Discoveries of a Traitor  
**Author:** Vintage Puppet  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary:** COMPLETED. Warning! Slight HBP spoilers! Do not read if you have not finished the book! A one-shot of Snape musings as he is brutally tortured by the Death Eaters. Major Snape Angst!  
**Disclaimer:** JKR owns EVERTHING. I just simply bend her characters to my will from time to time….

Enjoy!****

  
A sharp slice cut through the air, landing on Snape's lower back with a loud _crack_. He could deal with this, but it still made him clench his teeth and close his eyes in agony as the whip cut through the air and thundered his bloodied back again and again, torching his soul in an angry fire.

An important lesson Snape had been taught was, if in pain or doubt, ask thyself not what the eyes can't see, but what the mind can't.

He almost smiled, thinking of the time when he'd been questioned what he would do if he had the ability to go back in time.

A cruel, ugly smile placed itself on Snape's distorted face.

It was a twenty year old question, yet to be answered; now seemed the perfect time.

It was almost silly, inquiring himself, but Snape could care less. He didn't want to think of how his body was a mangled pile of bloodied flesh, his arms and legs contracting with each and every slice of the whip, his face buried in the mud, as they continued to rape him of his _sanity_-

If he ever had the chance, the first thing he would do would be to kindly suggest that his mother have an abortion. He would threaten her of all the horrible things he had done, the countless lives he'd ended, how his father would beat the both of them, until their blood splashed on the walls and dark-oak floor, until their mind clouded with black fog, blood seeping through their mouths and noses-

Maybe _that _would end his suffering before it could even start on his _pathetic excuse_ for a life.

Not that it _mattered_ anyway.

His whole life before Hogwarts had been a complete waste.

Then again, since when has the life of Severus Snape ever owned one shred of importance? He knew since the day he could talk and understand human speech, that he had been expendable.

Always _expendable,_ wasn't he?

Snape always got a bitter taste in his mouth when he thought of that word, that one damnable word that was so harsh, cruel but deathly true at the same time. After all, what was the life of one slimy, worthless little traitor-of-a-Slytherin anyway when you can have him do the work for you? He knew where he came from: a shady family at that, and he wasn't proud of it. But what could he do? He couldn't control who his parents were, and their history, now could he? Snape was labeled dark the moment he was born. That was all there was to it.

His years at Hogwarts proved as much. From the day he stepped in though giant doors, to the entrance hall, all the way to the Sorting Ceremony with all of the other first years, he had a feeling that life at Hogwarts would be equivalent to life in Azkaban prison.

His assumptions were unbelievably correct, of course. He suspected that in less than a week, he'd make no friends, and more enemies than he could have counted.

It was times like _these _when he hated being right.

It took only two days, and he was the most despised student to have ever walk through Hogwarts.

Snape had a funny feeling that it had something to do with being sorted into Slytherin. After all, all who are put into the dark serpents house are bound to be dark in their own little way, and that alone gave everyone else good enough reason to treat Snape as if he was the ugly duckling in a nest of elegant swans. Even the other Slytherin's thought him a bother, a nuisance, a complete waste of breath. Why shouldn't they?

He was a _dark _child, after all.

Even worse, he was a _mud-blood_.

Snape felt just as worthless and vile as he was told to be, every time he heard that filthy word...

For every second of his life, Snape has loathed what he was. He despised his father. Snape knew that he wasn't conceived from a happy, married couple. He knew from day one that his parents had joined together because of the Snape family wealth, and lack of purebloods to spread the Prince linage. At age eleven, Snape had pleaded, begged for the Sorting Hat to place him in Slytherin, or else he would have to face his mother's wrath, scathing remarks about how pathetic he was, and his father's hatred for him because he was _different_; magical, abnormal.

He was hated just because he _existed_. Wasn't that enough reason?

If being told something enough times, then one would start to believe it, live it, and be corrupted by it, Snape briefly wondered if anyone knew that he too was a human being with emotions and the power to _feel_.

He seriously doubted that, since no one ever bothered to get to know him more as the sarcastic git who took points from Gryffindor and favored the Slytherins. But there was something about him that everyone knew, taunted him about;

_Traitor_.

It wasn't the swift kick to the ribs that brought Snape back to reality. It was the truth. He was a traitor, and nothing could erase that.

No matter what he did, or how he did it, he would fail someone. His parents, Dumbledore. Everyone. What was wrong with him! He was trying, he really was. It just wasn't good enough. Nothing Severus Snape did really _was_ enough, was it?

Snape was pretty sure, by now, that every bone in his body was either cracked or completely broken. Maybe that explained why he couldn't move, even if he wanted to.

Especially his chest. That, too, might explain why it was getting harder to breathe with each passing second, almost as if blood seeped its evil way into his lungs, choking him, depriving him of the life he needed-

_Sadistic bastards, _Snape thought bitterly. He wasn't even sure how long he had been here, receiving beating after beating. Two hours, three perhaps? He wasn't sure; time didn't seem to exist at the moment.

His hooded tormentors seemed to take pity on his chest; after all, can't torture someone if they die from a punctured lung. Instead, they focused on his arms and legs, which were impossible to move without feeling the bursts of fire over and over again, searing his limbs, ripping at torn legitimates-

There were six in all.

Six hooded Death Eater bastards.

And to perfect his predicament, there was a full moon. If he was lucky, maybe a bypassing werewolf would come and kill them all. Better dead then alive, but then again, Snape didn't believe in such miracles. Especially with his luck, which seemed almost nonexistent.

One of the Bastards suddenly produced a small pocket knife. The blade hit one of the moon rays and gleamed as it was lifted, and then lowered on his left arm. Snape's tormentor pressed the blade just enough to create a mark. He pressed harder, drawing more blood, and Snape was pretty sure by now, he had hit a vein.

However, that didn't satisfy the hooded Bastard; the cut, which was leaking blood down Snape's wrist, started to pool on the moist ground. Dragging the knife down the entire length of the arm while adding more pressure with each and every inch.

Snape's whole left arm and side were a dark crimson color, which glittered oddly in the moonlight.

The hooded figure continued this process to his other arm, the blade trailing white hot pain up his arm, while leaving a dark red trail that dripped on the ground, staining it a dark maroon color.

Head buzzing and his surroundings swerving, Snape wasn't sure how much longer he could keep conscious. He distantly heard voices telling him to '_keep awake, Snape, you filthy traitor, we aren't done with you yet,'_ but he was just so tired.

So tired of everything.

But everything wasn't tired with him.

Never.

In fact, Snape was sure that his only role in life was to be a tool. Used when useful, and thrown away when he had no more value. It was until someone took a delicate cloth, and much like a dusted figure, clean him of his filth, to make him worth something, anything, even if it was just a little bit.

But that day would never come.

Not for him.

END

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**A/N: **Mmkay. I basically spent like, three hours writing a small continuation for the ending, but as I read it over with the original chapter, it totally ruined the story. But yes. I have re-named 'Series Flashbacks', and am currently working on a humour story featuring... well, that would be telling, wouldn't it?

To those who have reviewed so far, thank you for your kind words :D While I love to write, receiving reviews just makes my day.

Also, on another note, for those who have completed the HBP, what do you think of it? I just finished today, having first started the book a good few weeks ago, and then finishing off a the few hundred pages left in a couple of days, reading well-into the nightly hours. Dumbledore seemed waaaay too calm and sure of himself as Draco was about to kill him. And what about the argument between Snape and Dumbledore? "Taking things for granted."? Would that have any relation to Snape's duty as a spy, and how Dumbledore doesn't realize how hard Snape works to have his cover NOT blown? Or is this just me formulating theories in my way-too-active-imagination? shifty eyes And the moment when Snape had 'gazed at Dumbledore' before Avada Kedavra'ing him? Is it possible that they were mind-communicating with each other then? I mean, the whole "Severus... please..." thing did not sound like Albus Dumbledore was about to plead for his life. In the book, the Headmaster makes many comments about how, in Harry's case, "his blood is not as valuable as Harry's" and how he was "growing old". It sounded like Dumbledore knew about his death, almost. And I think he was pleading with Snape to kill him. When Harry was forcing Dumbledore to drink the potion, there was a line when he was like "KILL ME!". After enduring that much torture from the potion, and being considerably weakened, instead of pleading for his life, wouldn't Dumbledore want to _end_ it? shrugs It appears that my imagination is on over-drive and therefore, before I start typing essay's, I shall be quiet now :D


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